


the old dull pain

by you_idjits



Series: love, in fire and blood [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:17:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_idjits/pseuds/you_idjits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas has an idea. Dean doesn't like the idea. Dean is a struggle bunny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the old dull pain

**Author's Note:**

> These codas to Pedaling are entirely self-indulgent. In my opinion, they undermine the things I was intending with the original piece. But I like writing them, and some people like reading them, so here we are.
> 
> This piece is a follow-up to the last one, and is part of a three-piece arc. I suggest you read all of the previous parts to this series, but especially lights that splinter.

Dean is washing dishes when Cas walks up behind him.

“Hey,” Cas says.

Dean drops the plate. There’s a moment before it breaks when he knows it’s going to break but his hands are too slow. It shatters.

“Shit,” he says. He puts his hands on the edge of the sink and sighs.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” says Cas.

“I know. Not your fault.” Dean’s been jumpy for the last few days, thanks to a combination of nightmares and sobriety. Well, maybe the sobriety is Cas’s fault. Last week after a bad day Dean drank two fifths of whiskey and knocked himself out for twelve hours. After that, Cas poured the rest of the liquor in the Bunker down the shower drain.

Cas’s fault. Right.

Dean’s dealing. This is how it goes sometimes. These things get better and then they get worse. He’s just going through a rough patch; Cas sneaking up on him and making him drop plates isn’t helping.

He feels like an open wound. Angry and red, all nerve endings.

Cas pushes him to the side and starts sweeping up the ceramic shards of the plate. This is the second time in two weeks that Cas has had to clean up Dean’s messes.

“Can’t even wash a damn plate,” Dean mutters. His hands are shaking again. The withdrawal symptoms are sneaking up on him.

“Stop it,” Cas says, sharp but calm. “Self-deprecation doesn’t look good on you.”

“Yeah? And what does?” he snaps.

Cas looks up, and that’s the edge of a smile. “Green,” he says. “Long-sleeved Henleys. That one pair of jeans with the hole over your left pocket.”

Oh, God. Dean’s mind tries unsuccessfully to process that. He blinks once, twice, three times. “Um,” he says. Since when does Cas notice things like that?

“Your articulation never fails to impress,” Cas says, but what the fuck, he can’t just say things like that.

They pick up the last pieces of the plate together. Dean rinses his hands clean of shards, and then Cas puts his hands under the water too. Dean takes Cas’s hands in his and rubs soap between their fingers.

This is what they do now. It took Dean a while to get used to the new tactile nature of their relationship. Because that’s kind of what they’re in. A relationship. Maybe. Sam seems to think so.

They still haven’t kissed or, or whatever. They haven’t talked about what this is, but maybe they don’t have to. Things are better between Dean and Cas than they’ve ever been before. They knock elbows at the breakfast table and Dean doesn’t flinch away. In the car, they don’t need to turn on the radio to fill the space. Sometimes, they wash hands together. It’s weird, really weird, but kind of good.

Dean is having a lot of nightmares, but Cas is helping. Holding Cas’s hands under the warm water feels nice.

“Hey,” Dean says, bumping his shoulder against Cas’s. “You came to tell me something?”

Cas turns off the tap. He flicks water droplets off his hands, then wipes them on his thighs. God, he’s getting really good at this human thing.

“I’m seeing someone,” he says.

Dean’s chest caves in. His throat closes up, suddenly and painfully. Those three words ring again in his head. “Uh, okay,” he manages.

Not okay. Not okay at all. Maybe Dean was wrong, maybe they did need to clarify this thing between them. Because Dean thought– he thought they were–

“I hope you don’t mind.”

And what can Dean say but, “No. Not at all. Totally cool with it. How long have you– I mean–” _did this start before or after you started sleeping in my bed?_

“Just a week or two,” Cas says, and that doesn’t help. At all.

“And he’s– I mean, he’s– do you. You know. Uh. Like him?”

“Her, actually.” Cas squints at him.

The water drying on Dean’s hands makes them feel cold and clammy. “Her. Right. I didn’t know you, um. Swung that way.”

“What do you mean?” Cas leans back against the counter. He is far too relaxed about this.

“Because the only person I thought you, you know. You know. Was me.” He can’t say it, especially not now.

Cas’s squint grows more pronounced. “Dean, what are you talking about?”

Dean takes a step away. Puts space between them. “It’s fine, Cas. It’s fine. You wanna see other people, I can deal with that. I can deal with that.”

Cas’s face breaks open into an unexpected smile, and then he starts laughing. Laughing harder and louder than Dean’s ever heard. He doubles over with a hand on the counter and laughs until he’s wiping tears from his eyes.

Dean feels like there is a Khan worm eating him from the inside out. This is not funny. This is the opposite of funny. He is feeling worse than he has all week – and that’s saying something, because it’s been a shitty week – and Cas is laughing at him. “Cas. Cas, please. Come on, man. Don’t–”

“You think I’m with someone else? Romantically?”

“Well, yeah. Isn’t that what you…” Hang on. Is he missing something? He’s missing something.

Cas rubs his face with a hand and laughs again. “Dean. I meant I was seeing a therapist.”

“I– what?”

“I’ve been seeing a therapist in Lebanon. Twice, so far.”

Oh. _Oh_. So then, he’s not, it’s not like he’s, okay. Okay. Dean grapples with that for a bit. It’s true, Cas has been mysteriously absent from the Bunker this week. Dean figured it wasn’t his business what Cas did with his free time.

“You– how were you getting into Lebanon?”

“I took the bus,” Cas says, like it’s obvious. “Sam helped.”

“Sam knows. Sam knows and I don’t?”

Cas’s lips twist into a small frown. “I didn’t want to tell you until I knew it would work out. I wanted to make certain it was a good idea.”

Dean is trying to connect the scattered dots in his head. He’s been so focused on his own nightmares these past few weeks that he’s forgotten about Cas. Forgotten about that time, all those months ago, in the car, when Cas said he might have PTSD.

Therapy. Right. Dean’s never been big on the idea, but this is Cas. This is Cas’s decision to make.

“Well, is it?” he asks. “Is it a good idea?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “I’m working with a woman who specializes in veteran counseling. I suppose I count as a veteran.” He smiles. “I did spend many millennia as a soldier, after all.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “That’s good, I guess. What made you, um, decide to do this? Was it–” _me?_

“You’ve been having a hard week,” Cas says, affirming Dean’s suspicions. “I wanted to be there for you, but I realized I needed to take care of myself, too. And I’d been considering this for some time.”

Dean gets that, even if he doesn’t like it. “I didn’t mean to be a burden, or whatever.”

“You’re not,” Cas says.

Dean holds his gaze for a moment. “If you say so. Well, do you need help? With this therapy thing. I could drive you. I don’t mind driving you.”

“I was thinking you could come with me, actually.”

And that’s it. Dean knew that was coming but it still takes him off-guard. “No,” he says. “No, sorry, that’s not happening.”

“It would mean a lot to me.”

“Cas– no, okay? I said no.” That’s not for him. He doesn’t belong in that kind of place.

“Dean,” he says, “I really think it would help.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Dean says. “I don’t need help.”

Cas looks at him with narrowed eyes. “You mean you don’t deserve help.”

Dean’s retort dies in his throat. He looks away. Cas is staring right through him. “It’s not that simple.”

“Dean.”

He leans back against the counter, because his legs are feeling weak. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

“I thought we discussed this,” Cas says. “You have to let other people in. You have to let me in.”

He’s right, of course he is, but Dean’s been backsliding all week. All the work he’s put in to overcoming the shitty “lone wolf” mentality went down the shower drain with the whiskey.

“Think about it, okay?” Cas’s eyes are softer now, more tentative. Dean looks at him for a few seconds, but he can’t deal with those eyes any more than he could deal with the glare.

“I– Cas, you can’t ask me to–”

“Yes, I can.”

Dean sighs heavily. “Look, this week has been a lot for me. I’m tired. We’re not having this conversation right now.”

“Okay,” Cas says, and that’s it. Cas is so much better at this than Dean is.

The little voice in Dean’s head whispers, _you don’t deserve him._

Dean knows that’s not true. But he lets it dig into him anyway. He’s too tired to fight off the negative thoughts.

Cas still has expectations in his eyes. Dean forces himself to say, “Thank you. For telling me.”

“Of course,” Cas says. “No more lies. Not anymore.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, that’s right. No more lies.” He rubs his face with a hand.

Cas reaches out, fingers brushing Dean’s elbow. “You’re unhappy,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Dean says.

“Talk to me.”

“It’s fine.”

“Dean,” Cas sighs, “you _just_ said there’d be no more lying.”

Cas is right, of course. Dean’s being unfair. “Okay,” he says, throwing up his hands. “It’s not fine. It sucks. But I’ll figure it out.”

Cas looks like he wants to push the therapy thing, but he doesn’t. Instead, he moves his hand up from Dean’s elbow, tangling their fingers together. Oh. Okay. Uh, deliberate hand-holding, that’s new. Sure, for the past few months, Dean’s made excuses to hold Cas’s hand. Maybe it’s cold out and they’re in Maine, or maybe they’re washing hands together. There’s no excuse here. There’s just Cas holding Dean’s hand in the middle of the kitchen.

Dean clears his throat. He stares at Cas’s shoulder. “Before, when you said that thing about not being with anybody else, um, romantically. Does that mean we’re together? Um. You know. Romantically?”

Cas laughs again. “Yes, Dean.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Uh. Cool.”

“I have no desire to be seeing other people.” He draws Dean closer, until they’re sharing the same space. “You’re the only one for me.”

Cas says it so easily, like there’s nothing to it. But these things carry weight for Dean. He can’t just smile and tell Cas, tell Cas… Jesus Christ, he can’t even say the words in his own head.

But he knows what he feels, and that’s enough.

Cas nudges him. “Do you want help with the rest of the breakfast dishes?”

“Oh,” Dean says, looking back at the plates in the sink. “Right. Yeah, that’d be great.” He lets go of Cas’s hand.

“But you’ll consider it, won’t you?” Cas asks. “Coming to a session. You’ll consider it?”

“Maybe,” Dean says.

“We could pretend it was couples’ counseling if that’d make it easier for you.”

It takes a moment to sink in. “You’re teasing me now, aren’t you?” But Dean knows Cas is throwing him a bone, and he takes it gratefully. The tension in the air thins.

“Oh, absolutely,” Cas says, grinning. Dean takes the dishrag from his shoulder and whips at Cas’s chest. Cas laughs, catching it, and tugs Dean forward.

“Come on, come on, you gonna help me wash some dishes or what?”

“I’ll dry.”

Dean lets go of his end of the rag. He goes back to the sink and starts washing. After a few safe moments of silence, he says, “I’ll think about it.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, but when Dean turns to hand him a plate, he’s smiling.

 

And Dean does think about it, more than he’s willing to admit. He and Sam go out for burgers on Friday night and he asks Sam for an opinion. Maybe it’s out of character for Dean to try for full disclosure, but things between him and Sam are getting better every day. Dean’s doing what he can.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Sam says. “Cas asked for my help when he first started looking, you know. The woman he’s working with– I think you’d like her.”

“Yeah, but I don’t need a shrink,” Dean says. He holds up his burger, figuring out the best plan of attack, but he feels Sam’s disapproving gaze on him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. He shakes his head and his hair falls in his eyes, the way it used to when he had bangs. Something pulls at Dean’s heartstrings when he thinks about that. Sam isn’t the shaggy-dog college student he used to be. He’s a grown man now. He’s smart and thoughtful and Dean should give him more credit for it.

“Look. You know how it is.”

“How what is?”

Dean puts down his burger. He tears at the edge of a napkin. “I mean– you have the same shit in your head too. You know why I can’t do this.”

Sam gives him a funny look. “No, I don’t.”

Dean frowns. “What do you mean, you don’t? You spent a hundred years plus downstairs and you’re trying to tell me you don’t have some fucked-up shit going on in your brain?”

“My coping mechanisms are better than alcohol and cheap sex, Dean.” Sam laughs, and it’s a low blow but Dean knows he doesn’t really mean it.

“Are you saying you’re better than I am at coping?”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know, Dean. I mean, therapy helped me.”

“Hang on,” Dean says, “you were in therapy?”

Sam frowns. “Yeah. While I was at Stanford. You didn’t know that?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Dean says. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Sam leans back in his chair, long limbs sprawled. “I signed up almost as soon as I got to Palo Alto. I got through a lot of crap in therapy. The abuse from Dad, the–”

“Sam,” Dean cuts in, sharp, “Dad wasn’t–”

“Yeah, he was, Dean. He was.”

Dean feels his shoulders tense. That’s an argument for another time. “So you did a few years of therapy. So what?”

“So, I know how to unpack my emotions. To clean out my head and take care of myself.”

“And you’re saying I don’t?”

“I’m saying you shouldn’t dismiss therapy out of hand. I’m saying you don’t see yourself clearly. You don’t see what you need.”

Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Okay,” he says, “you’ve got a point.” Sam makes a face of surprise, like he wasn’t expecting Dean to give in so easily. Honestly, Dean wasn’t expecting that either. “Even so, I’m not doing it.”

“Why not?” Sam asks.

“Why _not_? Sam, I’ve already had someone try to psychoanalyze me, and his name was _Alastair_.” He spits the word, sharp like a knife because he knows it’ll cut.

Sam flinches, as expected. “That’s not an answer. Why not?”

“Look, I just tried to explain it to you!”

“No, you didn’t. You said, ‘you know why I can’t do this’ and never actually said why.”

Dean sighs. His burger is looking less appetizing by the minute. “Fine. Okay, fine. Think of it like– I’ve got this suitcase, right? That I take with me everywhere. And it’s so full it’s ready to burst, I’ve stuffed way too much shit in there. Shit I don’t need, shit I don’t want. The suitcase is falling apart, coming undone at the seams. But I can’t open it. If I open the goddamn thing it’s gonna explode. Do you get it now?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Okay. Well, then, playing along with your suitcase metaphor, here’s what I think. Cas is right there with you. And you know how when your suitcase is too full and you’re trying to close it you don’t have enough hands? ‘Cause you need two hands to hold it together and another to tug the zipper. So you get some help. You get some help with your suitcase so it doesn’t fall apart.”

Sam is looking at him like he’s said something genius, like he’s had a friggin’ eureka moment. A breakthrough. That’s what they call it, right?

“I hate it when you’re smart,” Dean says.

“It’s your metaphor,” Sam says.

Dean drags a French fry through ketchup. “It’s not that simple. Like I said, the stuff with Alastair… Forty years is a long time, okay? The only reason I can function in society is because I repress the memories. I bring those out to play and who knows what’ll happen.”

“Okay,” Sam says, “so don’t talk about Hell. Start with something small. Like Dad.”

“John Winchester? You fucking kidding me? Something small?”

Sam hesitates. “Relatively speaking,” he says.

Yeah, speaking of Hell. Alastair sure loved to play with the daddy issues. Tug on the John Winchester thread and everything comes unraveled.

Dean sighs. Throws up his hands. “I told Cas I’d think about it, so I’m thinking about it. No promises.”

“Or Cas,” Sam says. “You could talk about Cas.”

“What about him?”

“You know. You guys have been through a lot–”

“Understatement of the century,” Dean mutters.

“–surely there’s stuff to unpack there?”

Dean worries the inside of his lip. “I don’t know. Maybe once. Not anymore, really.”

Sam straightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Dean fidgets with the napkin again. “I guess we’re just better at talking now. We don’t really need a therapist between us to work things out.”

Sam smiles, something soft and sincere. “I’m glad, Dean. I’m really glad.”

Dean makes a face. “Come on, cut the chick-flick crap.”

Sam laughs. “Okay, okay, fine. You’ve heard my two cents. You know it means a lot to Cas. He’s worried about you. We both are.”

Dean’s ready to say _I can take care of myself_ , but he bites back the words. “Yeah,” he says instead, “I know.”

Sam opens his mouth to say more, stops, and tries again. “Cas says the nightmares are worse than usual?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Dean says. He frowns. “But yeah. Um. They’re bad this week.”

Sam nods in understanding. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do help.”

“Other than a bottle of Xanax?” Dean says, and it doesn’t land quite right; Sam gives him a look of concern. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll let you know.”

“Good,” Sam says. He picks up his burger. They move on to lighter conversation.

 

Dean tells Cas that evening that he’ll come to one session. Just one. The way Cas looks at him, he might as well have saved the world or something.

“I don’t believe in this kind of shit,” Dean says, “but I trust you. So I’ll try it.”

Cas hugs him, then. He puts his hands at the base of Dean’s head and pulls him forward. He combs his fingers through Dean’s hair, and presses a kiss to his temple. A kiss. Goddammit. Dean gives in, burying his face in Cas’s shoulder, curving forward to wrap his arms around Cas’s back.

“I’m doing the best I can,” he mumbles. There’s an unexpected lump in his throat.

“I know,” Cas says, “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: This fic approaches psychotherapy in a very specific way, with the people around Dean pushing it as something positive for him. This does not, in any way, reflect my own thoughts about therapy as a practice. I have never been in therapy, and don't have a definitive opinion. I did not intend, with this piece, to push a certain agenda or make any readers feel uncomfortable. As usual, I write to reflect the thoughts and feelings of the characters.
> 
> Title from one of my all-time favorite poems, [Little Beast](http://yupnet.org/siken/2008/03/24/little-beast/) by Richard Siken.  
> Thanks to Tasha for editing. Thanks to you all for reading.  
> Crossposted on [tumblr](http://shootingstarcas.tumblr.com/post/115979254396/the-old-dull-pain-a-coda-to-my-dcbb-dean-is).


End file.
